


what can you see from your window

by thesmallestacorn



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Childhood Friends, Letters, M/M, World War II, and lovett is miserable without tommy, but also some fluff, lovett does some top secret math stuff that i left ambiguous but maybe codebreaking or something, slowish burn, some angst and stress, tommy is in the navy, tommy is miserable on a boat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-05-24 01:00:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14944689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesmallestacorn/pseuds/thesmallestacorn
Summary: world war ii era tommyjon, told in letters back and forth





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rare instance where a song actually inspired a fic instead of going the other way around. I was being Tommy Kin by listening to Jason Isbell, dress blues came on, which made me think of a Tommy-As-A-Soldier fic, and then the line “what can you see from your window” stuck in my head, and here we are.  
> https://genius.com/Jason-isbell-dress-blues-lyrics  
> This is close to done-- I'll try to post somewhat regularly and hopefully I'll finish it soon now that it's summer. (I haven't quite decided how to end it yet, so stay tuned!)  
> thanks to the chat for admiring the excerpts i posted along the way

_March 7, 1943_

_Dear Tommy,_

_It’s 3:13 am according to the clock on the wall, and I really should go to bed, but instead, I’m writing to you now because I can’t sleep and I’m an irresponsible idiot. We had another bombing drill tonight. It started how it always does, where I’m inevitably in the middle of something important that requires light. Tonight, it was something I had brought home from work that I probably can’t tell you about, because if the Navy decides to check this letter before you get it and they see that I’m talking to you about what I do at work they’re going to destroy this letter and throw me in prison forever for treason in case you were a spy or something. Which is dumb, because we’re fighting on the same team, just I’m here in the States doing ~secret stuff that uses my mathematical skills~ and you’re out there on the frontlines. Anyway, I was trying to do some things for work and had just gotten out a pen and paper when the sirens blared. Everyone knows the drill at this point, our block has gotten very efficient. I timed it and it was two minutes, fifty one seconds from when the first siren went off until I looked out and didn’t see any lights on the block. This is how I entertain myself now, because the world is terrible. I miss being able to play cards with you. Now that you’re not here, I mostly stick to solitaire, which is sad and depressing, but you can’t even do that when you have to turn off all your lights and pull out the blackout curtains. So instead I named the state capitals in my head, and then I did which candidate each state voted for in the last election, and then I started going backwards, and I got all the way back to 1924 (the tricky one there is to remember that La Follette won Wisconsin, then the rest is just your standard north-south split) before the all-clear signal came and I could turn the lights back on and go back to work. And before you say some snarky thing, I checked all my election results in the encyclopedia you got me for my birthday sophomore year of high school (which I cannot believe was only three years ago --things really have gone to hell since then), and I was all correct, so take that. I think of you every time I see that encyclopedia (which is pretty often, since it’s right on the shelf in the middle of my living room). We’d been impressing each other with random trivia knowledge since the day we met in Latin 1, and then later you decided that I needed an encyclopedia. It’s still the best gift anyone’s ever gotten me. You know me so well. And it was a big hassle to move to my new apartment, but whatever. You still haven’t seen my new place, by the way. Next time you’re on leave you’ll get to see it, and I’ll make us some sidecars in my new cocktail shaker, and we can sit together on the couch, drink them and dance to the radio, and maybe play some cards for old time’s sake. Just get away from it all for a bit. Pretend everything’s normal and it’s 1939 again and we don’t have to worry about the fate of the world. (Sorry to get all heavy on you.)_

_I hope everything is going alright over there. I know I probably sound ridiculous, complaining about things like blackout drills while you’re freezing on some ship in the Atlantic Ocean, eating disgusting rations and trying not to get blown up by German submarines. I still question your decision to volunteer rather than stick it out through the end of high school and stay here for a bit and wait to get drafted. And yes, I know you say you have a better chance of making it through the war unscathed in the Navy rather than the Army, which is probably where you would have been drafted, but still. You also have a better chance of surviving if you don’t start fighting until 1943 or whenever you would have been drafted instead of signing up to die in 1942. Though I suppose you have made it this far. And I know you’re going to say that it’s all in service to your country, and that you feel compelled to serve, and to be like your father, but really, Tommy, you can’t be of service if you die. And you can’t be like your father if you die. He made it through the first war alive, (despite being a world class idiot like his son and volunteering to get blown up,) did he not? Honestly, you Vietors and your save-the-world complex. Ridiculous, the lot of you. Anyway, I’m sure things are miserable out there on your ship, so I hope you’re happy with your choices. Feel free to complain to me in your next letter. You haven’t told me much about your life now, so I’m curious. What do you eat? How are the other men on the ship? How much action are you seeing? Is it just ocean for miles and miles? What can you see from your window?_

_Keep blowing up Nazis--got to kill them before they invade and decide to kill me first. If I tell them that I haven’t been to temple since the high holidays last year and that I ate bacon just yesterday (can you believe I managed to find bacon with all this rationing?! It took a bit of haggling and some trading of ration cards, but I managed), will they consider me goyish (oh, sorry, “Aryan”. Please picture me giving me my biggest eye roll here.) enough and spare me? Next time you capture one of them, ask for me._

_You know I was never much of a praying person, but like everything else, the war has changed that. Know that you’re in my prayers, that I ask G-d to keep you safe and bring you home soon._

_Write back soon--your (infrequent) letters are the highlight of my day. Week. Month. Whatever._

_Stay safe._

_All my best,_

_Jon L._


	2. Chapter 2

  
  


_ May 26, 1943 _

_ Dear Jon,  _

 

_ You’ll probably receive this letter in August or something, because mail takes forever, but please know that I wrote back as soon as I got your letter. It made my day. Well, no, as you said, it made my month.  _

 

_ I’m afraid it’s rather dreary out here in the North Atlantic. The weather is terrible--even with extra coats, the cold and damp seem to seep through to one’s bones. This morning it took three of us fifteen minutes to get a cigarette lit because the wind kept putting out the matches. However, I appreciate the days when the only thing to complain about is the miserable conditions, which, thankfully, is most days. Last week, however, we got into a bit of a scuffle with a small German ship. We managed to deflect or avoid most of their shots and sink them before they did too much damage, but we did lose two men and spent a few days doing minor repairs. Such is the way of war. Don’t worry about me though, I escaped without a scratch. Actually, I did have a scratch from a piece of shrapnel that flew past my arm, but other than that, I’m absolutely fine. _

 

_ I live in a tiny room below deck, with two beds and just enough room for our personal belongings, barely space to turn around. My roommate is nice. He’s also 19, and named Jon, funnily enough. Favreau though, not Lovett. We get along well--last night, he gave me a few of his M &Ms, since I had given him a few of mine last week. That was the night we stayed up talking for hours and hours. You know those nights, where you just spend time together and talk, and you get to know someone on such a different level. You and I have had a few of those nights over the years. I always loved that. The last one we had was the night before I left for training, at that fancy party. The war was on our minds, of course, a threat present in the background, but for a brief few moments, it was just us. We went out in that courtyard and talked for what felt like half a year, but was probably just half an hour. Listening to the muffled music and breathing in the cool air, looking at the flowers and hearing the soft chatter of the people inside. Dancing, slowly. I remember how sharp we looked in our suits, and how I pulled you close, hand on your waist, trying to make sure you knew just how much you mean to me, trying to forget that I was leaving tomorrow and that the world wasn’t just us two dancing in that beautiful garden. Everything was perfect, and even though we left so much unsaid, I know you understand what I meant by it all. That probably makes no sense, sorry.  I think the many months at sea are slowly driving me insane. We’re going to England in a few months though, and I’ll be there for a bit before heading back out here. Then, at long last, I’ll be on leave and I can come to visit you and my family and my other friends. Maybe we can sneak back into that estate and spend more time in that garden.  _

 

_ To answer the rest of your questions: the food is predictably boring and rather terrible. Rations. The other men on the ship are alright, I like some more than others. Most of us are young and terrified but we do what we’re told and morale stays pretty high. Favreau is my closest friend here. As I mentioned, we do see some action, but I’d say (since you’re a numbers man) 80-90% of our days don’t have any direct engagement. Yes, it is just ocean for miles and miles. As to what I can see from my window in my tiny room below deck: ocean. Dark blue ocean. So much of it. Sometimes I’ll see fish, and the other day I saw a piece of something that looked like a bit of a blown up submarine.  _

_ What can you see from your window? (Of course, I’ll get to see when I come visit your new apartment on leave. Can’t wait.) _

 

_ I want you to know how much I appreciate your prayers. It’s good to know that someone has you in their thoughts. And hey, maybe God is listening. The war has made me turn to prayer more as well, probably because I’m not quite sure what else to do. Sometimes I’m not sure how a God could allow this much suffering and horror, but then again, if anything can end this, it’s divine intervention. Favreau is Catholic, so he does a rosary every night before he goes to bed, and I’ve started following along. We haven’t died yet, so perhaps it’s working. I pray for an end to the war, for those I love to escape unharmed, and for me to be able to return home and be with you again.  _

 

_ Keep up the good work, doing whatever it is you’re doing. I know it helps. _

_ I miss you. _

_ Tommy V.  _

  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

 

_ July 10th, 1943 _

_ Dear Tommy, _

_ By the time you read this, you’ll probably be in England. Or maybe back out to sea already, who knows. The mail is so slow. I miss the days when I could walk five minutes around the block and come see you, where we could sit in your backyard by the trees and talk for hours on end about politics and the impending war. Thinking back, I definitely didn’t appreciate those times enough when we had them. I’m sure you didn’t either. I really do miss you. I’ll admit I even got a little teary-eyed reading the bit of your letter where you reminisced about that night we spent at that party. It meant a lot to me too, and rest assured that I understood what you meant even if you didn’t say it. At least, I think I did. Maybe I didn’t. Neither of us has really ever been good with feelings, have we? We can talk when you’re here, I suppose. _

 

_ Things are going pretty well here. We have pretty consistent blackout drills, and rationing is as bad as ever, but the country really is pulling together. Everyone seems to be doing their part: women working the jobs the men have left behind, building airplanes and ships, and the men off doing the fighting. My sister has taken a job after school selling war bonds. She dresses up with some other young women and the local agency comes and photographs them with signs reading “Buy War Bonds” to print in ads and posters. My mother is doing her rationing and made a “victory garden” so we have more food here. My father is a manager at the factory, which has now been entirely converted to weapons manufacturing. And of course, I’m busy with my top secret mathematical work. I still can’t tell you exactly what I’m doing--not even my family is allowed to know that-- but I’ll tell you that I’m finding it more engaging than ever. My boss is a man called Pfeiffer, although he insists we call him Dan, and I really like him a lot. He keeps morale up and the team running smoothly. I, along with a few of the other men, got a drink with him after work the other night, and I very much enjoyed myself, which goes to show you the kind of camaraderie we have with him. He’s extremely smart (of course, so is everyone on the team), but also kind and dedicated to making sure we’re doing our best. I’m actually writing this letter to you after hours in the office, so as for what I can see from my window: some trees and a grassy field. We’re at the end of a quiet street on the edge of town, and my desk overlooks the back view. There’s a large field, where sometimes we bring blankets and take our lunches, and behind that, a small forest. It’s really quite pleasant. Right now the sun has just about set, so the fireflies are out. I can see them blinking by the edge of the trees. It was one of those long, warm summer evenings, where everything is still a bit damp and it smells fresh from the rain earlier in the day, and all you want to do is sit outside and take it all in. The humidity, however, is making my hair extremely large and messy and curly. I’m quite a sight. _

 

_ How is England? (If you’re there yet. I know how uncertain these things always are.) I haven’t been since I was 10, so I don’t remember much, but I do remember loving the accents and the way the sheep looked on the hills. And I loved London, I remember that too. It’s probably completely different now. G-d knows how much of London is even still standing. It’s so sad. Anyway, I hope you’re having fun back on land. Try not to get any of those British girls pregnant, and send me a letter quickly while you can. And I guess I’ll ask again, since you’re in a different place than last time: what can you see from your window?  _

 

_ Please let me know when you expect to be back in the States. I can’t wait to see you, it’s been so long. You’re probably all pale and skinny and weird looking from being cooped up on a boat for four months, but that’s alright. Just know that I’ll tease you mercilessly like I always do. But it will be worth it, because you’ll be safe, and able to eat good American food and sleep in your own American bed and drink American liquor and buy good American cigarettes. And talk to your best American friend. _

 

_ Write back soon and don’t get into too much trouble across the pond, haha.  _

_ I’m still praying for your safe return every night. _

_ Yours, _

_ Jon L.  _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the nice comments y'all! I think I'm gonna do four more letters after this, depending on how I decide to end it. One and a half of those are written. we'll see.


	4. Chapter 4

_ July 31, 1943 _

_ Dear Jon,  _

_ I am, in fact, in England. At last! I got here a few days ago. It’s been strange, adjusting to being on land again. I’ve had to relearn how to walk normally, can you believe that? But it is lovely to not be freezing and damp all the time. Not that England is particularly sunny, but it’s better than the North Atlantic. I’m at a base outside London, which we just arrived at today. We drove through a part of London on the way here, and God, Jon, it’s horrible. All I could think about was how beautiful and charming it was when I was here as a child, the pretty buildings and bustling streets, people shopping and talking and happy. Gone. It’s all gone (even though the Blitz has been over for quite some time.) The streets are filled with rubble, and the few people who are out hurry to their destinations, tired, sad looks on their faces. All the joy is gone. The war really has taken a toll. Obviously Americans at home are war-weary and downtrodden as well, but it doesn’t compare to here. They’ve lost so much more than we have.  _

 

_ Sorry to be all depressing. I really am grateful to be here, on land, alive and in one piece. And as far as I know, I haven’t gotten any of those British girls pregnant (although Favreau and I did meet a charming pair of girls in the pub the other night, and, well, I’ll keep this letter semi-appropriate.) I love this pub. Favreau and I have gone twice now, and I think we’ll go again tomorrow, when we have the night off. It’s very classically British. I asked the barkeep how long it had been there and he said Oliver Cromwell used to drink there, so at least 300 years. There are locals smoking and drinking, they all know each other, and then us military types, grateful to be here, taking it all in and drinking the delicious English beer. We’ve stocked up on cigarettes as well, since we had to start rationing them at sea, plus these ones are so much better than the Navy-issue ones they gave us. You would love this pub too. Maybe when the war is over we can go on a trip to England together, and I’ll take you here.  _

 

_ I have some fantastic news for you: I’ll be heading straight home from here! (Well, obviously, it will take a bit of time to cross the ocean.) I’m here in England for another few weeks, and then I head home. It’s entirely possible that this letter will get to you after I do. I intend to spend as much time with you as physically possible. (Of course, I’ll spend time with my family as well.) We can play cards in your new apartment, and perhaps I can meet this Pfeiffer. We can go out drinking, and curl up together on your couch and listen to the radio. I’ll hold you in my arms and never let go. And you won’t have to write to tell me what you can see from your window, because I’ll be able to see it too. How I’ve been picturing it is that at some point when I’m home on leave, the war ends, and I never have to go back to that fucking ship, and we can be together again I suppose that’s unrealistic though--I was talking with my commander and he guessed that we’ve got another 1-3 years ahead of us. It doesn’t hurt to dream, though.  _

 

_ I’m facing the window of my room as I write this. I can’t see much, mostly some other barracks. There are a few men doing exercises in the field, and another few kicking around a soccer ball, which they call a football here. In the distance, there are some rolling green hills with sheep on them. I imagine it would all be quite idyllic if not for the massive military post and the sounds of aircraft taking off every few minutes. That’s another thing I miss about peacetime in America-- the quiet. Being able to take a walk (with you) and listen to the sounds of the birds during the day, and the frogs and crickets at night, instead of hearing planes take off, or the constant hum of the ship’s engines, or gunfire and explosions. Even when they aren’t going off, I still hear gunshots in my head. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever stop hearing them.  _

_ I went to church with Favreau this Sunday. He wanted to go, since there’s a Catholic church about a mile from us and he hadn’t been to a proper mass since we deployed. Always curious about other religions, I went. (Remember that time you took me to temple with you? That was fascinating, I learned so much. Even though I didn’t understand most of what was going on since it was mostly Hebrew. Maybe sometime I’ll take you to church with me, the next time my mother drags me there.) Anyway, he asked if I would perhaps like to go, and I said I would, since I was curious about how Catholics do church, but that I didn’t know much about Catholic services, and he said he would explain it to me as we went, don’t worry. It was quite something. There’s the priest in his robe, and music, and they do lots of prayers, most of which I didn’t know but some of which I did. Most of it is in Latin, and you and I spent too much time messing around together in that class for me to have retained much, so I was pretty lost. It’s still beautiful to listen to, though. Then there was communion (I politely ducked out for that bit, since I felt weird saying I accepted the body of Christ in my mouth or whatever it was, when I don’t believe that), and then the names of the war dead from this town were read. So many names. A few last prayers were said, and then Favreau and I went and lit candles in memory of those lost. He recently received news that a childhood friend was killed by a mortar in France, which really is tragic. There have already been so many killed that we knew. My mother wrote and told me that as of last count, 11 from our high school class alone are dead. It really makes one think--it’s a miracle I’m still alive. But for a few twists of fate, I would be on that list too. I lit a candle for them.  _

 

_ I’ll see you soon, and we can talk about it all together (at last!) I’m scheduled to get home between August 25th and August 28th, though you know how these things are. I’ll give you a telephone call once I’m back in the States so you know when to expect me.  _

_ I miss you more than you can ever know, _

_ Tommy V.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! a few more letters to go
> 
> please call your senators and make sure they'll vote no on any supreme court nominee who opposes roe v wade   
> (this has been a terrible week)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it’s been so long since I updated!! thank you so much for reading/commenting.
> 
>  
> 
> *ritual sacrifice to the fourth wall goes here*
> 
> side note I changed my ao3 user name so it’s not the same as my tumblr anymore

_ September 27, 1943 _

_ Dearest Tommy, _

__ _ I’m writing this next to you in chairs facing my window. You were right, your letter got here right when you did, at the end of August. If you’re reading this before you’ve left for sea again, put it down right now. We promised each other we wouldn’t read these until we had to separate again, and I intend to actually keep that promise. Alright, now that you’ve made sure you’re not here with me still, you can keep reading.  _

 

__ _ I don’t quite know how to express how being with you again has made me feel. I knew I missed you, but I didn’t realize just how much until you stepped off the train and caught my eye. I’d forgotten how blue your eyes are. You looked sleep deprived, pale and skinny, but it didn’t matter, to me it was the best you had ever looked. Because you were here, in the flesh, with me. Not just a photograph, not just a fading memory of your hands on my waist that night in the garden, here. With me. In my arms. Alive. And yes, I did start crying, because I couldn’t believe it was real. I’d been having nightmares for weeks that I’d show up to the train station on the day you were supposed to arrive and you wouldn’t be there, and I’d look and look and finally come to the realization that you weren’t on the train, and then I’d call the Navy inquiries office and they’d tell me what I already knew, and then I’d wake up with tears on my face. I still wasn’t sure it wasn’t a dream until you ran your fingers through my hair. I’d know that feeling anywhere. You looked rather sharp in your dress blues, once I had stopped crying enough to get a good look at you.  _

 

__ _ If we’re being honest, another thing I hadn’t realized I missed quite as much as I did is kissing you. I know it only happened once before you left, so I’m not sure if it really makes sense that I missed something that was a one-time occurrence, but I did. I missed dancing with you in that courtyard, swaying to the faded music, pulling each other closer and closer, trying to say what we couldn’t say. I missed inhaling your scent, and being able to forget about the war for just a moment, and feeling your warm breath on my cheek, and your mouth soft on top of my head, holding me tight, and then your lips over mine, tasting of the chocolate cake we had eaten earlier. I didn’t realize I missed it until I opened the door to my apartment and you pulled me inside, shutting the door with one hand and putting the other one around my waist, kissing me. It may have been the most romantic kiss in all of human history. I felt like I was Scarlett O’Hara and you were Rhett Butler. You know the scene. (Remember when we saw that movie together? That feels like so long ago.) Tommy, I promise, I will never forget that moment as long as I walk this earth. It felt like we had picked up right where we left off that night you first kissed me. Everything that had been left unsaid was said. Everything we’d been keeping to ourselves for years was out in the open. Everything I had wanted to tell you for the long months we were apart, I told you. I do love you. Looking back, I can’t remember a time since I’ve known you where I wasn’t in love with you, even if I didn’t know it. _

__ _ It seems cruel that we have to be apart again so soon. And yes, I know that we spent practically every waking moment together over the last month, but despite that, I’m not sick of you. I don’t want you to leave. I want to be with you. I know you’d never agree, because you’re a good brave patriotic American, but I think we should run away to Canada or something and peacefully live out our days there instead of you leaving me again just so you can get blown up (and defeat the fascist threat once and for all, yeah, I know.) I swear, if you get killed, I’ll dig you up and kill you again for leaving me like that.  _

__ _ I’ll tell you what I can see from my window right now. I can see the street, where we walked back drunkenly from the bar, arms around each other, standing just a little too close. Where you sat down on the ground cause you were laughing too hard to stand up straight. I had made some joke that wasn’t even that funny, but we were both intoxicated and you think every joke I make is deeply hilarious. I love when you laugh, Tommy. Your face gets all red and your chest shakes. It is, quite frankly, adorable. I can also see a bit of a car in a driveway, the driveway where you pushed me against the wall and sucked a mark onto my neck underneath my collar, running your fingers softly through my hair and whispering “Jon, Jon, please, I want you.” Once you get like that, you become irresistible to me. I can’t explain it. Something about the feeling of your lips, soft yet insistent against mine. I fall apart, I really do. I need you to stay here with me, so I can kiss you as much as I want, and feel your thighs shake when I touch you just the way you need, and your chest rise and fall under me as we fall asleep. I don’t know how I got on without you when you were deployed, and I don’t know how I’ll do it again.  _

 

__ _ Please, dear G-d, win this damn war. I’m sick of reading the stories of people dead, blown to pieces, torn away from the ones they love. Plus I hate Hitler, and I think America is on the right side of history here. And you know what they say: American boys hate to lose. So don’t-- win the war. For me.  _

 

__

__ _ If, G-d forbid, you don’t come back, just know that I love you more than words can ever express, and that I’ll never forget you as long as I walk this earth.  _

_ Jon _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> go find a friend who isn’t registered to vote and get their dumb ass registered


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends, sorry it's been so long since I updated!! I've been busy/on vacation/not in a writing mood. Here, finally, is your chapter. I may add one more after this...still haven't decided. thank you for being patient and for reading!  
> while y'all are here, midterms are less than three months away, and that means you need to go find every single one of your unregistered friends and get them registered. also, go find a campaign to volunteer on. what lovett said that one time is true--canvassing can be scary but it's also so rewarding and I always have a great time, especially if I go with friends. trust me, you'll feel better knowing you're not completely useless.
> 
> rant wheel over. here is your unabashed fluff.

_ September 27, 1943 _

 

_ My dear Jon, _

 

_ It seems like just yesterday I was walking into Latin class when my eyes caught yours. I remember taking a seat next to you and introducing myself, and proceeding to chat and joke throughout most of the class, earning us extra homework from Miss Rigley. I wasn’t even bothered about having additional work on the first day, because I knew at that point I had made a friend for life.  _

 

_ Of course, what I didn’t know that day was that I had also fallen in love. _

 

_ I don’t quite know when I realized this. Maybe it was the day we went sailing on the lake, when I showed you how to steer the boat and taught you all the sailing terms. The wind was blowing through your hair and making little curls stick up every which way. I can picture so clearly in my mind you opening a beer bottle and passing it to me and then lighting my cigarette while I sailed the boat. You looked so delighted to be there with me, and I remember feeling nothing but utter happiness.  _

_ Maybe it was the day that I came to you crying, and you took one look at me and said “he’s gone, isn’t he, God, Tommy, I’m so sorry” and held me tight in your arms while I shed tears of shock and grief,, even though we had both known it was coming, that my father’s days were numbered. You were there for me in a way no one else ever has been. Whenever I’m sad or frightened, I just imagine that you’re there, holding me like you did that day, and I always feel better. _

_ Maybe it was that last night before I left, when I finally learned what it was like to have your lips on mine, and that you felt about me what I felt about you. _

_ Perhaps, deep down, I’ve always known. _

 

_ It has been an absolute dream spending this last month with you. I still can’t believe it’s real, that it’s not one of my silly fantasies I use to distract myself from the strange mix of boredom and terror one feels out there on the ship. That what I can see from my window right now is not endless ocean, but the tree underneath which I kissed you, and the reflection of the couch where, during our first blackout, you sank onto the floor and took me in your mouth and we did things that are extremely unsuitable to write down until the all clear siren came.  _

 

_ I’ve realized that I don’t hear gunshots as I’m trying to fall asleep when I have you next to me. When I was deployed it would happen almost every night as I lay in bed—I would hear the echoes of explosions even if there were none, and they would keep me awake for hours. Something about having you curled up next to me and being able to feel your chest rise and fall made me sleep much better. I think it’s that this way I knew that I was in fact safe, that no harm could come of me as long as I had you there. I’m dreading going back to sea because I know for certain I won’t sleep as well. Of course, I’m dreading it for other reasons too. I hope to God that this war ends soon so I can be with you again.  _

 

_ I really don’t know what to say except that I love you and I’ll miss you terribly, and that I’ll try my very best to come back to you in one piece.  _

 

_ All my love,  _

_ Tommy _

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's finally done, folks!! thank you so much for reading and all your kind comments. it really means a lot. now onto the remix fic!! 
> 
> I was going to kill tommy off, I really was, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I love him too much. So he got injured instead.
> 
> mild tw for alcohol abuse mention and holocaust mention, as well as for an excess of commas.

_August 14, 1945_

_Dear Tommy,_

_As I write this, I’m watching you set off firecrackers in the street, and I’m getting teary just looking at you. Watching you laugh and smile and walk around, goddammit. G-d knows two years ago I didn’t think I’d ever see that again. I remember a general feeling of dread when you left, that surely something was going to go wrong, and I was proved right barely six weeks later. I think I’ve blocked out most of the memory of that phone call, because all I can picture is your mother’s voice saying “bomb” “leg broken” and “critical” and then starting to cry. The thought that not two months previously your arms had been around my waist as you picked me up to kiss me goodbye and now I might never see you again was all too much to handle. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but I called in sick to work for the next four days, holed up crying in my apartment, drunk most of the time, trying to numb the pain of possibly losing you. I honestly don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t pulled through. I can’t really imagine life without you. Perhaps my prayers worked, since your mother called me again a few days later and told me you were going to live, that they were going to bring you back here in a couple weeks once you had stabilized a bit more so that you could recover at home. My worst fears had not been realized after all. I broke down in tears again after that phone call._

_I have to admit there have been quite a few tears since you got blown up. Some occasions I can remember:_

_When you finally got home and I went to visit you at the convalescent home. You were pale and sickly, cheekbones more prominent than ever, a stray few cuts still healing on your face and arms, and in a cast going up to your waist. I cried, because you were a shadow of what you once had been; your former Captain America-esque looks, figure, optimistic can-do attitude reduced to a broken body and a broken spirit. I brushed the hair off your forehead and kissed your cheek and tried to tell you that it was all going to be alright, even though I didn’t know if you would ever walk again. And then I yelled at you for being a fucking idiot with a savior complex, because who would voluntarily go try and kick away a bomb that’s landed on your ship to save all your men except you, Tommy Vietor. Of course you would. Which, although extremely infuriating, is part of what I love about you. A few weeks later you told me that even though it was dangerous, you wished you could go back to the battlefield instead of sitting at home useless, which was so typical of you I started laughing so hard that my Coca Cola came out of my nose._

_When you took your first step on your bad leg, seven months to the day after I first got the call from your mother saying you had been injured. What a long road it was to that day, and how far we still had to go after that. Still, it felt like an inflection point. (Which, if we take that phrase literally, means that if we graphed your recovery we would go from a negative second derivative (concave down) to a positive second derivative (concave up). Just so you know what that phrase actually means, because you never took calculus. You know me. I always have to, as you once said, “bring math into everything.”) Things had finally turned around, and you were so happy. I cried tears of joy that day._

_When we did what we had been intending to do for two years at that point and snuck back into the garden at that fancy estate where we kissed for the first time. Where we danced and you asked why I was crying and I told you it was because I loved you so very, very much, and that a year ago I didn’t know if I was ever going to see you again and now your arms were around my waist again, strong and steady as always, and that I could smell your lovely clean scent and see every faint freckle on your nose instead of having to picture them like when you were deployed._

_When I picked up the morning paper and read the story about what American soldiers had discovered at Auschwitz, knowing that some of my relatives were probably among the dead, and you held me tight and murmured in my ear that I was safe, that you would never let anything bad happen to me, even as I felt your hands shake and your tears drop onto my neck as you read over my shoulder._

_And this afternoon, sitting in my living room listening to the radio when we got news that Japan had surrendered, that this dastardly war was finally, totally over, that we were safe. You jumped up and down (on your working legs!) then grabbed me and kissed me. It’s a kiss I will never forget._

_It has been a long few years, Tommy. Hopefully, things will be a little quieter now. We can do our crossword puzzles together, and listen to music, and not worry about the fate of the world._

_With that, I’m going to come join you outside. I don’t want to miss all the fun. Also, I feel that I should stop you from setting off firecrackers before you get blown up again. We wouldn’t want that, now would we?_

_Treasure this letter, it’ll be a historical artifact someday. ‘Love Letter From V-J Day’ or something._

_Love,_   
_Jon_


End file.
